


Smoke and Mirrors

by Shaedero



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Gen, Some Locklyle but it's not the focus, Spoilers for TCS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8456017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaedero/pseuds/Shaedero
Summary: Lockwood and Lucy embark on a peculiar case given to them by a distressed woman concerning her late son. What they discover is beyond either of their expectations, and forces them to realise what they hold most valuable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally uploaded to my Tumblr @ shaedero.tumblr.com. I hope you enjoy!

With the framework of gnarled, twisted branches and impending fog, it was a peculiar kind of darkness that seemed to close in on us as we approached the grand house. It was the kind that held a sense of foreboding, a creeping dread that alit the senses with a fevered rush of unease, a cool blanket of despair that descended upon--

"Okay, that's enough of that," I said irritably.

Lockwood looked hurt. "What? My narration needs work?”

"Rather, it isn't needed at all. Honestly, when I told you that you needed a hobby besides gossip magazines, I didn't expect that you'd pick up commentary of all things. Does that even count as a hobby?"

Lockwood snorted. "Don't be daft, of course it does. What else would you have me take up? Flower arranging?"

"At least flower arranging is good for something," I remarked.

"Oh? What for?"

"Being _not_ an imperilment to my sanity."

"You wound me, Lucy."

I sighed, allowing him a small smile. After rejoining Lockwood and Co., it was all I could do to contain my excitement for our first case as a team again. Standing beside Lockwood facing an ominous haunted house had never felt better, and, though somewhat overdone, his description of what stood before us was quite accurate. The evening light was fading rapidly, and the twisting branches of the oddly bare trees that framed the house added to the spooky atmosphere. A fog did appear to be rolling in, though it seemed a little ways off yet, and dead leaves left over from winter littered the stone path leading up to the front porch. The garden, enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, was shriveled, with greeny-brown grass sticking up in tufts and lapping against the dark roots of the elm trees. A single wan light illuminated the front door, the only sign that anyone was home.

"It looks charming, if anything," Lockwood stated as we strode down the path, heavy duffel bags at our sides.

I gave him a look. "Does it, now?"

"Sure. Only, it's the wrong time of year for Hallowe'en."

"Mm. I doubt many folk would appreciate it as a seasonal attraction like you do. To celebrate something as ridiculous as Hallowe'en would be suicide these days."

We stepped up the porch, halting before the door and setting down our bags. Lockwood adjusted his collar; I attempted to arrange my hair. It had grown a little from the bob it used to be. I hadn't found time to get it cut.

"What was it George said? A Shining Boy?" Lockwood asked as he tugged at his gloves. The orange light glinted off his dark hair.

I shrugged. "That's what he suspects. Apparently Ms Crowley wasn't very clear over the phone. She just kept raving about her son's unfortunate end rather than anything related to the haunting."

"Hmm. I suppose we'll have to get it out of her ourselves," he said, grasping the knocker and giving it a terse rap.

"Speaking of George," I added, "are you sure he and Holly will be all right? Spectres aren't to be taken lightly."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll manage. Besides, they have Kipps tagging along, and with his new goggles I'm sure he'll be more than willing to help. We should be more worried about ourselves."

"I don't know. A Shining Boy doesn't sound too bad."

Lockwood smiled. "If we've learned anything in our history, it's not to underestimate a case."

I shot him a skeptical look. "Have we really, though?"

He chuckled. "Okay, maybe not."

I grinned in response, heart swelling with bliss. This was what I had missed most of all. Our companionship.

Suddenly, the clicking sound of locks being unlatched and bolts being withdrawn sounded from the door. We stepped back, smiling pleasantly as a frail woman jerked it open. She peered at us suspiciously through a gap no wider than a couple inches. “What do you want, then?”

Lockwood used his best welcoming grin. “Ms Crowley? We're Lockwood and Co. We're here about the case.”

Her eyes flickered down to our glittering rapiers, loaded work belts, and stuffed duffel bags. They searched our clothes, our professional stances, then regarded our faces with new interest. “Come in, come in.” She opened the door wide, ushering us in.

We stood in a large foyer, the polished floor reflecting us as we gazed around. To the right rose a wide staircase that kinked to the left in an L, the banister overlooking the room. Below it opened an arch, leading to a large kitchen, and another to the left, behind of which was the lounge. Every surface was scrubbed within an inch of its life, every piece of wood gleamed. Our footsteps echoed on the hard floor.

Lockwood opened his mouth to speak, when suddenly Ms Crowley gripped his arm and pulled it down, forcing his face close to hers. “Mr Lockwood,” she murmured earnestly, dark-circled eyes peering into his. “Lucas was ever a good boy. I don't know what got into him. He loved his pranks, sure, but he never meant any harm, oh, never! You have to believe me, Mr Lockwood! I don't know why he does what he does….”

Lockwood extricated himself from the mumbling woman’s grasp gently. “No need to rush, Ms Crowley.” He granted her a reassuring smile. “Just take your time and tell us everything you know.”

‘Everything she knew,’ as it turned out, didn't amount to much. The woman appeared to be somewhat off her rocker, and continuously ranted about her son as he was alive. Ever a good boy, he was, always making her smile and playing his games. His illness prevented him from playing outside with the other boys but that never seemed to dampen his spirits. He was a mischievous lad, but not once did he ever use his tricks for harm.

Ms Crowley’s thin hands fluttered about as she went on, staring earnestly at Lockwood all the while. It was like I wasn't even there, which suited me just fine. I used the time to survey the room we sat in, sipping my tea.

The lounge was grand, with a large fireplace set against one wall and plush recliners and a loveseat lying before it. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, and any gaps along the floor were taken up by sprawling houseplants. Iron ornaments hung from the archway and adorned the fireplace; bushels of lavender occupied silver pots sat atop the coffee table. Lockwood and I took the couch and Ms Crowley had pulled up a footrest, sitting in front of us as she told us all about her son.

“That's all very interesting, Ms Crowley,” Lockwood intervened, “and I don't doubt your son’s gentle disposition in the slightest. Only, we need a little more information about a possible motive for the haunting. Was he ever bullied by other kids? What about his father? Did he treat him right?”

The woman’s expression darkened. “Oh, that man! Never spent more than an ounce of time at home! No, he never treated Lucas poorly. Lucas looked up to him, in fact, something I simply cannot understand. He was always dashing about, traveling to who-knows-where for his work. Always busy, never making time for little old me. What happened to the freedom of love? Of love knowing no bounds? Oh, times have changed, they have.” She sighed dejectedly, caught up in the past. Suddenly she looked to us, a sparkle in her eye. “Nothing like young love.”

Heat rose in my face at what she was implying, and I spluttered indignantly. Lockwood made a show of studying his shoe. “We- it's not like that,” I assured her. This was precisely the kind of conversation I'd hoped to avoid by leaving the skull behind.

“Oh.” She looked disappointed for a moment, then perked up. “Lucas had a girlfriend. It was puppy love, of course, but he was so happy….” It went on.

As Lockwood began to wrap up the conversation, insisting that night was approaching and we had yet to survey the house, I unclipped the thermometre from my work belt and studied it nonchalantly. 21 degrees. The perfect temperature for a homely living room. Only a little odd, considering that night was nearly upon us and we'd heard that her son had died in this very room.

As we stood, preparing to head back to the front entrance for our equipment, Lockwood hesitated. “Ms Crowley, is there somewhere safe for you to stay the night? It's a little dangerous to still be living in a haunted house, even more so while agents are at work.”

She shook her head vigorously. “No ghost ever comes down here, Mr Lockwood. It all happens upstairs, it does. No need to worry about me.”

“Er, but where might you sleep tonight?”

She merely gazed at us in response.

“Right, well,” Lockwood continued. “Luce, let's grab our stuff. We've got a Visitor to dispatch.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next forty-five minutes were spent carefully checking each of the ground floor rooms for temperature changes and psychic disturbances. Lockwood scrutinised every nook and cranny for death-glows and signs of a visitation, while I listened for any possible psychic whispers that might give us information. After recording our findings and temperature readings in our casebook, we agreed that Ms Crowley had been correct: the ground floor held no signs of a visitation. Standing in the entrance hall, I glanced through the archway to where she sat in the lounge. Rocking back and forth gently, she stared listlessly into her empty teacup as if it held the life essence of her precious son.

Completely unwarranted, her comment to us about young love popped back into my mind. Frowning, I shook my head to clear it. I had more important matters to focus on than the ravings of a mad woman.

“She's mental,” Lockwood muttered to me as he double checked his belt.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Completely bonkers.”

He glanced at me. “The loss of her son really hit her hard. And with her marriage not working out.…”

I nodded, feeling a pang of sadness as I imagined the frail woman alone in this huge house. To live in an empty home haunted by her deceased son and devoid of her husband, her last pillar of support? It'd drive me a little nutty, too.

After flicking off the light, I joined Lockwood as he moved toward the stairs. He hesitated with his hand on the banister, foot on the first step. Then he kneeled down, opening a duffel bag and removing one of the iron chains. Moving swiftly into the lounge, he handed it to Ms Crowley. She looked up at him in wonder. “Your charms and lavender should keep you safe, but it doesn't hurt to make sure,” Lockwood told her. “If you ever feel in danger, make this into a circle and stand inside. It will protect you.”

Returning to the stairs, he picked up the bag and brushed back his hair. “Up we go.” He smiled at me.

We ascended the stairs into darkness. With each step the temperature dropped: 21 degrees, 20 degrees, 18 degrees, 15 degrees…. Our breath plumed in the air, and we waited at the top for our eyes to adjust, hands on our rapier hilts. Eventually the second floor came into focus: a spacious rectangular area with five doors. One on the right wall, three on the far wall, and one on the lonely room to the left that was split from the rest by a corridor. A couch and rocking chair faced the railing overlooking the entrance hall, with two small bookshelves against the wall on the left. Against the banister sat what appeared to be a toy chest.

Lockwood and I stood side by side, watching and listening. A strange pressure seemed to fill the room, and I felt my heart quicken and my limbs slow. Malaise, it appeared, was settling in a very high concentration. Attempting to block it out, I focused on listening. The pressure building in my temples was an indication of a strong psychic disturbance, and I thought I could hear a faint tapping echoing throughout the rooms. Remaining there a while longer, I grit my teeth and used my Talent until the pressure became unbearable. Snapping my eyes open, I let my breath out in a quiet sigh, taking comfort from Lockwood’s presence against my arm. He, too, shook himself from his trance.

“Well, this is jolly,” he murmured.

“This is a powerful visitation, Lockwood. I'm amazed it's only on this floor.”

“I know. And given Ms Crowley’s descriptions of her son, I doubt this is a Shining Boy we're dealing with. It doesn't sound like he was wronged, and the disturbance isn't anywhere near the threshold. Still, this is definitely a Type Two.”

I nodded.

We moved swiftly about the room, setting up defenses and checking our supplies. We lit and set a lamp next to the iron circle, its wavering light throwing shadows across the wall in an odd dance. As we wrote down our findings, I told Lockwood what I'd heard.

“A knocking sound? Do you know where it came from?” He asked as he tucked away the casebook.

“It's hard to tell. It echoes around, but I think it came from that way.” I nodded toward the dark hallway and isolated room.

He sighed. “Of course it did. Well, let's check this one first,” he said, striding toward the room on the far right. Drawing his rapier, he nudged the door open. It was a pleasant blue-tiled bathroom smelling of citrus freshener, with no hint of a ghost.

I scowled. “That's not fair.”

Lockwood grinned at me. “You know the rules, Luce. You next.”

Reluctant to head directly to where we both knew the psychic pressure was radiating from, I chose the next-furthest door. The handle was cool to the touch, but not freezing. I knew immediately there wouldn't be much of interest inside. Opening the door, I revealed the guest bedroom.

“I have to hand it to her,” Lockwood whispered right beside me, causing me to jump. “Ms Crowley has a nice sense for décor.”

“Is that all you care about in these cases? You read too many property magazines.”

“Rubbish. I simply have a refined taste.” He gave me a friendly nudge, causing me to crack a smile. Lockwood always knew how to de-stress a situation.

Lockwood took the next door, which turned out to be the master bedroom accompanied by an en suite with no contribution to the case, and then it was my turn again. The next room was a little ways down the dark corridor, and we stood hesitantly at the entrance. Peering into the dark proved no benefit to either of us, so Lockwood flashed his torchlight in a brief reconnaissance.

Framed photographs and portraits littered the walls, along with a small table at the far end of the corridor. Most of the pictures appeared to be family members, some depicting Ms Crowley and, I assumed, Mr Crowley. He was a broad-shouldered, ruggedly handsome man and carried an air of authority that wasn't unkind, yet still made me a little nervous. Which was ridiculous, considering he wasn't actually in the room with us.

Shaking my head, I turned to Lockwood, who was staring down the corridor, uneasily still.

I frowned. “Lockwood?”

He knit his eyebrows, blinking. “Odd, I thought I saw… no, it's probably nothing.”

“Famous last words, those. It's all right, just tell me.”

“Well, to be honest, I'm not sure what I saw. It might’ve been a figure, but look how the shadow of the table joins up with that picture. It was likely just my eyes playing tricks on me.” Still, he looked troubled, something far out of character for him.

I swallowed, trying not to let the unnerving atmosphere get the better of me. Anything able to put Lockwood off his tea was to be feared. But in all the time we'd worked together, I knew he would snap out of it quickly, and all the sooner if it really was just shadows. But if he _had_ seen a figure, what could it have been that affected him so? Or, more precisely, whom?

Walking slowly, I approached the table. A picture frame sat atop it next to a plant, the leaves of which sparkled with frost. I trained my torchlight on the picture. It was a photo of a young boy with curly brown hair smiling mischievously at the camera. He was very pale, with slightly hollowed eyes that betrayed a lingering illness. “Lucas,” I murmured.

Behind me I heard a sudden movement, as if something heavy were being scraped across the floor. Whirling around, I drew my rapier halfway. Lockwood stood there casually, raising a questioning eyebrow. He hadn't heard a thing.

Releasing a pent-up breath, I let my rapier slide back into its sheath. “I heard a noise. It was like someone was dragging something across the floor.”

Lockwood narrowed his eyes, then shone his light to our feet. The long, narrow rug obscured most of the hardwood floor, so Lockwood kicked it aside. Sure enough, the wood was scratched and scuffed. We followed the marks with our torchlights until they disappeared under the door to the isolated room.

“Naturally,” I muttered. I glanced over my shoulder. We had yet to check the third room along the back wall. I'd much rather deal with whatever was inside it than the other one. Gripping the handle, I took a deep breath. I pushed open the door, revealing yet another bedroom. This one was smaller, with a twin bed, end table, and dresser. Moonlight pooled through the circular window, casting a round white light onto the carpet. The patterned bedspread, brightly-coloured furniture and beanbag chairs indicated that this was Lucas’ room. Or maybe an adult who was very in touch with his inner child.

The psychic pressure was stronger here, and if I squinted I could make out the beginnings of ghost fog. I glanced at Lockwood. “Well?”

He peered over my head into the room. “Ghost fog...but still no death-glows. It's odd that we still haven't seen one.” He rested his chin on my head ponderously. “Hear anything?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I listened. There it was again: the tapping. Or was it rapping? It had a strange, almost metallic ring to it; certainly not someone knocking on wood. So what were they knocking on?

I opened the door wide, taking a careful step inside. “Just the tapping again. I don't think it's coming from this room, though.”

Lockwood followed, gazing around. “Then I doubt the Source is in here. Otherwise I'm certain the apparition would have shown itself by now.”

We took to picking our way through the bedroom, looking for anything that might give us clues. After a few minutes, things were looking bleak.

Lockwood tapped the dresser he was examining impatiently. “Hmm. I wonder if the skull would have had anything useful to say.”

I scowled. “Doubtful. He's still upset about me rejoining the company. All he's been doing is pestering me.”

“You'd think he'd have run out of ammunition by now. What's he bugging you about this time?”

I felt an annoying blush creep into my cheeks. That stupid skull. “Oh, nothing of interest,” I mumbled.

He was quiet for a moment, giving me a sidelong look. “If you say so.”

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. I was glad that for once he didn't ask questions.

Suddenly, in a moment of utmost grace, I tripped over the leg of the bed. I grabbed the post to steady myself, teetering. All at once, a shocking jolt of memories and emotion ignited in my fingertips, spreading through me like fire. I gasped as I was transported into the past.

_A large hand reached down and patted my head affectionately. I looked up into the eyes of my father as he smiled down at me, golden sunlight streaming down around him, bushy elm trees towering in the background. I smiled hesitantly back, and then he withdrew. He walked away to a big, shiny black car. Mum was there too, watching. Her face was blank. I looked down to my hands. They held playing cards, arranged delicately between my fingers in a flourish. All at once I was filled with a sense of disappointment. Leaving again. No time to see what I'd learned. When will he come back?_

The images shifted. Suddenly I was back in the room, but it wasn't over. This time I was an observer from above.

_Two forms sat huddled before the bed. Soft weeping filled the room. Hands clutched at a photo and a deck of cards, shaking._

Emotion washed over me; sadness and regret so profound I felt as though I were drowning. Suddenly a yanking sensation pulled me back to reality and I gasped, snapping my eyes open.

I glanced around, heart hammering in my chest, blood rushing in my ears. I took a deep breath, then suddenly was aware of a person sitting beside me, arm wrapped around my shoulders.

“That must've been quite an experience. Are you all right, Lucy?” Lockwood said, gazing at me with concern.

“I'm fine.”

“Gave me a right scare. You just collapsed suddenly. Thankfully I know you well enough by now to tell when you're using Touch.”

I nodded, scratching my cheek. It was wet. I wiped away the tears, frustrated. Such a display of emotion made me feel vulnerable. Wasting no more time, I told him what I'd felt.

He was quiet for a moment, drumming his fingers against his leg, peering down his long nose at the floor. “Looks like we're on to something, Luce.” He grinned at me. “Whatever you experienced, the ghost didn't like it. While you were in dreamland, the psychic pressure increased ten-fold; I thought my head would burst. That tells us we're getting close to figuring out the Source.” Bounding up from the bed, he extended a hand to me. “Time to find out what's behind that door.”


	3. Chapter 3

We stood before the ominous room, gazing at the door that kept its contents hidden from the outside world. It was silly, when you thought about it, that a mere plank of wood was all that stood between us and possibly mortal danger, yet it made us feel so safe. In reality, a Visitor could simply wander through it and slap us round the face and we'd be out of commission, permanently. I gripped the iron chain in my hands tightly, attempting to dislodge the mounting anxiety.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” I said simply.

“Oh, why’d you have to go and say that? Now something bad is definitely going to happen,” Lockwood muttered.

“Has my  _ not  _ saying that in the past ever made a difference?”

“...Good point.”

Lockwood grabbed the handle, grimacing. Ice cracked at his gloved fingertips. He looked to me. “Ready?”

I nodded.

He turned the knob and pushed open the door.

The room was very large, almost seemingly bigger on the inside, and scattered all throughout it were dozens upon dozens of tall, thin shapes draped in white cloth. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, filled corners, and occupied every conceivable space between the numerous concealed objects. The room was nearly pitch dark, the only light peeping in through the windows and around the drapes. 

Lockwood and I swept inside, looking around, senses on high alert. Ghost fog carpeted the floor, sometimes shifting to reveal the scarred wood below. Miasma was heavy, weighing me down and filling my nose with strange odours. I didn't have to focus to hear the tapping anymore, and it was bitterly cold. I felt my pocket for the silver seal. The Source was here.

“Still no sign of an apparition,” Lockwood murmured, “but even I can hear the rapping now.” His voice was heavy; he was clearly being affected by the malaise. Removing a packet of chewing gum from his pocket, he withdrew two pieces and handed one to me. We chewed thoughtfully for a moment as we gazed about the room, then spurred ourselves into action.

Lockwood moved swiftly forward, long legs taking him quickly to the mass of white shapes. I followed, then lay out the iron circle a decent distance away so that we may have retreated if necessary. I watched as Lockwood inspected one of the cloth-draped objects. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, pulling away the white sheet in a cloud of dust and cobwebs. 

A black shape shot out from under it, hissing and spitting. Lockwood leaped about a foot into the air out of fright, ripping his rapier clear from his belt. The cat scampered between his legs, hurled past me and was out the door. Lockwood looked after it, then to me, bewildered. 

A puff of laughter escaped my lips, becoming a casual cough as he glowered at me. “Sorry.” I hadn't seen him that startled since the infamous Mrs Barrett’s tomb incident. “Are you all right?” 

“I think I swallowed my gum,” Lockwood said sadly.

Then, in unison, we gazed at what he revealed. It was a tall, oval floor mirror, its glass surface lovingly patterned with frost. Looking around at the rest of the draped objects, all of similar size and shape, a silent question rose between us: were these  _ all  _ mirrors? We set to work uncovering them. 

Some were oval, some were rectangular, one was even pear-shaped-- and not very flattering as a result-- but, sure enough, all of them were mirrors. After gathering up all the cloth and moving it out of the way so as not to hinder ourselves, Lockwood and I gazed at what we had wrought. The mirrors faced every which way and were scattered about without rhyme or reason, and all had unique patterns of frost lacing the glass. 

“Well, I think we know how the marks on the floor came to be,” Lockwood said. “Why on earth would anyone need so many mirrors?”

I shook my head. “I haven't a clue. Though it's hard to understand much of Ms Crowley’s behaviour.”

We wove between the mirrors, flashing our torchlights periodically to aid our search for the Source. The rapping continued: three quick taps, silence, then repeat. I peered around warily, watching out for the apparition. Too many agents were killed by being caught unawares. The floor would occasionally creak below my feet, causing me to wince at the loud noise, though I knew the Visitor could already sense our presence. 

Suddenly, as if in response to my thoughts, the psychic pressure began to fluctuate. I put a hand to my temple, frowning, then glanced around. The ghost fog was thickening; a fresh wave of miasma rolled over me. The rapping began to pick up pace, and my heart responded in kind. It was coming. 

I turned around. “Lockwood--” I stopped dead. The space behind me was empty. Where was he? I glanced around. I was completely surrounded by mirrors, as dense as though I were standing in a forest. There was no trace of Lockwood. Panic rose in my throat; I pushed it down. I couldn't let the Visitor sense my fear. 

I stood on my toes, peering over the mirrors, searching. There! A familiar, tousled head of dark hair, skimming over the sea of mirrors. Thank goodness for his height. I rushed toward him, ducking and weaving through the obstacles. What was he thinking, wandering off on his own during a case like that? He was going to get an earful from me, that was for certain. But, frustratingly, I was having trouble telling where he'd gone. Everything looked the same. Were there always this many mirrors?

I continued running, popping my head up above the mirrors, trying to catch a glimpse of him again. Nothing. Eventually I came to a halt, panting, trying to master myself and keep calm. Taking a deep breath, I straightened and slowly drew my rapier. Something was creeping up on me.

Whipping around, I slashed my rapier up in a diagonal strike. The ghostly hand reaching for me severed from its coil with a hiss, evaporating. Aside from that, there was no Visitor to be seen. That indicated a Changer, but I couldn't be sure. I stood there for a moment longer, watching and listening. Still nothing. I shifted my focus, paying attention instead to the psychic thrum that continued to fade in and out. Maybe it was my imagination (and I sincerely hoped it wasn't) but I thought I could make out a direction from which it was emanating. Looking around further, I could still see no sign of Lockwood, and the ghost was getting more active. 

I now had three choices set before me: Retreat to the iron circle (provided I could find it), search for Lockwood (extremely risky, but rewarding), or follow the pressure and hope it was the Source. 

It's probably easy to tell which one I wanted to choose, but I forced myself to think rationally. The Visitor was messing with me somehow, that much was obvious. This was  _ its  _ territory,  _ its  _ hunting ground, and it  _ definitely _ wanted kill me. To go looking for the iron circle would make me vulnerable; I'd panic when I inevitably couldn't find it and the ghost would strike...not to mention I'd be leaving Lockwood to fend for himself. Searching for Lockwood would likely go similarly, but at the same time there was strength in numbers, and provided we didn't get separated again we would definitely be able to take this thing down together. But if I  _ couldn't _ find him…. I shuddered. That left me with the third option. I would be without protection (aside from my bombs and flares) and without my partner, but it was the only decent lead I had. If I could find and snuff out the Source, then this nightmare would be over and I'd be reunited with Lockwood. Besides, maybe he'd have the same idea and we'd meet. It was worth a try.

Slashing aside another ghostly tendril, I trusted my sensitivity and followed the thrumming. 

I walked and walked, malaise weighing down my limbs, changing direction on a dime as I tracked down the source of the pressure. Every so often I'd pause to listen and look around, hoping for a familiar swish of the coat or tall slim figure to present itself. Still no sign of him. To call for him would only draw out the Visitor, and the maze of mirrors seemed hopelessly large. My heart twinged anxiously, and I tried not to imagine the worst. 

Then, ever so faintly, I felt a soft voice brush against my inner ear:  _ “P..t..nd.” _ I couldn't make it out. I stopped in my tracks, listening hard. Nothing. 

Suddenly, a huge blast of psychic energy threatened to blow me off my feet. I staggered, clutching my head, then peered at the floor in front of me. The ghost fog shifted, revealing a piece of floorboard that jutted out slightly, coated in frost. 

Wasting no time, I rushed toward it, dropping to my knees and pulling out my crowbar. I plunged it between the boards and pushed. It shifted slightly, the wood cracking. With renewed vigor, I drove my weight down onto the lever. The board popped out of place with an indignant  _ snap. _ I grabbed the end, letting go of the crowbar, and pulled. It was still stuck.

Suddenly, the whistling of something whipping through the air sounded behind me. I threw myself to the side, a ghostly hand shooting by me, grazing my back. I felt my coat fizz with ectoplasm as I scrambled upright, gripping my rapier. There were dozens of them hovering before me, ready to strike. One touch and I'd be done for. I slashed at them as they came for me, whirling my blade in one of the patterns Lockwood taught me, struggling not to get overwhelmed. I took a step back, then two, then three. I couldn't make any purchase; the assault was relentless. Sweat beaded my brow as I fought to keep up, but I was being driven back. I wasn't as good at swordplay as Lockwood, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I made a mistake. 

I rolled out of the way as a wave of ghostly hands whipped down toward me, then scrambled to my feet and ran. Stuff the Source; the ghost would kill me before I ever managed to uncover it. I had to regroup, and hopefully find Lockwood. The Visitor was simply too powerful.

I sprinted through the chaotic mess of mirrors, ducking and weaving, trying to outrun the ghostly hands. A tendril shot by me, grazing my shoulder, and I cried out, losing my balance. I tumbled to the floor, dropping my rapier. I struggled to pull myself forward, desperately reaching for a way out. The hands rained down around me, fingers piercing the wood inches from where I lay.  This was it. This was the end of Lucy Joan Carlyle. Even I knew when I was outmatched. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting.

Nothing came.

I opened one eye, then the other. Then I sat up, looking around, confused. The ghost fog was still there. The miasma was as strong as ever. But the thrumming… it had all but disappeared. Something else remained. The tapping, the dreadful rapping- it continued mercilessly, rhythmic and persistent. 

_ Tap, tap, tap… Tap, tap, tap… _

Then, loud and clear, breaking through my defenses and resonating in my very core:

_ Knock. Knock. Knock.  _

I turned.

There, in the mirror. A pallid boy with curly brown hair, hand raised, knuckles resting against the inside of the glass. Lucas.

I stood, mesmerised. The boy simply gazed at me, hollow eyes blank, face devoid of that mischievous grin. The tapping ceased.

Then, all at once, the psychic pressure redoubled, erupting in my eardrums and searing through my skull. I collapsed back to the floor, hands pressed over my ears, mouth agape in a soundless wail. Visions flickered behind my eyelids: I saw all my sisters, my mum, my father. Memories flashed into my mind, but the emotional response was weak. The force faltered, the images faded.

_ “Not them. Not family.” _

I peered through my eyelashes at the mirror, trembling. Still the awful eyes watched me, calculating, judging my reactions. 

_ “Is it...him?” _

At once, Lockwood burst through the mirrors, clutching his rapier, coat steaming with ectoplasm stains. He looked around frantically, then his eyes rested on my crumpled form. He rushed over to me, dropping to his knees, letting his rapier clatter to the floor. He took me in his arms, pressing my face gently into the crook of his neck.

“Lucy.…”

I wrapped my arms around him.

And then he was gone. My hands closed on air; I lurched forward. Emptiness and hurt filled the pit of my stomach, I gazed at the floor silently. Then I looked up.

The eyes were triumphant, the lips curved into a smile.  _ “I can pretend. I tricked you.” _

The assault resumed, this time with memories far more recent and vivid. I cried out as forced images flashed through my mind: their anger when I unleashed a Visitor in the house; when he risked his life to save me from my own mistake; when he followed me down into darkness knowing he could die; when I went into the forbidden bedroom and betrayed his trust. 

Guilt, regret and sadness tore through me, burning me up from the inside like wildfire. I felt my strength ebbing away, feeding the Visitor. I remembered them lying there amidst the ash; I remembered the awful pale face and empty eyes. I remembered all the reasons I'd chosen to leave Lockwood and Co.

My hands fell away from my ears and my shoulders sagged. Numbing doubt, anguish and misery was all that remained. I didn't deserve to live. How could I, after everything I'd done? I'd caused so much pain for everyone around me, ever since the beginning. My eyelids began to flutter shut, my breathing slowed to a long, drawn-out rasp.

Suddenly, something wavered in the Visitor’s assault. An opening. At once the negative thoughts began to fall away, my own determination rising from the ashes. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself into action. Ripping a salt bomb from my belt, I hurled it at the mirror. The plastic seal burst against the glass, shattering it and sending shards flying. Salt erupted, green-flecked and fizzing against ectoplasm, raining down in a five metre radius. Debris showered me as I sat covering my face. 

Silence. I opened my eyes and lowered my arms. 

The mirror’s reflecting days were clearly over, as it lay in smoking pieces. I looked around for the ghost. The fog had lessened, the pressure was receding. I stood unsteadily, retrieving my rapier. I had to move. 

But where to? Without the thrumming, I was directionless. Enveloped in a sea of mirrors, helpless and alone. I saw reflections of myself all around: bruised, battered, and scared. I turned on the spot, trying to remember where I came from. It had all been a blur. I cursed.

As if on cue, the pressure returned, the fog thickened. It was coming back. 

Panic seized me. “No,” I muttered. I couldn't let it trap me in that torment again. I looked around wildly, trying to think of a solution. Something unexpected rose within me: irritation. I would not allow this ghost to do as it pleased. Wracking my brain, I thought back to what we had uncovered about the case. I remembered what I experienced with Touch: Lucas’ emotional state, his parents’ mourning. That was it. I lifted my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. It was time to try something different. 

“Your dad never paid enough attention to you, did he?” I proclaimed. “You're lonely. You looked up to him, and he abandoned you over and over.” My voice reverberated throughout the room.

A mirror shattered, the shards falling and drumming against the floor. The psychic pressure intensified; I felt its anger resonating through my boots. 

“You practised your tricks endlessly in the mirror, hoping that when you saw him again you'd be good enough to finally impress him. But you died before he came back.” I flinched as the mirror behind me began to tremble, then watched as a ghostly hand reached out from it, grasping. I began to run, yelling all the while. “Your mum cares for you, yet you've driven her mad with your games! Is that really what you wanted?”

In all the mirrors around me, images of Lucas began to appear with that same blank expression, yet I could feel his fury rolling through the air like thunder. Mirrors shattered as I ran by them. Negative thoughts and emotions began to forcibly enter my mind again, but I tried to block them out and focus on my own verbal assault.

“The truth is, your dad  _ did  _ care for you! He mourned you with so much regret it made  _ me  _ feel sorry for him! And now look at you. You'd be nothing but a disappointment if he ever laid eyes on you again.” More mirrors broke, showering me with glass, cutting my skin. Okay, maybe not the smartest solution, to yell angrily at and provoke a ghost. But it was all I had. It was still hiding behind its illusions.

I opened my mouth to continue, then faltered, words dying in my throat. I came to a stop. In front of me, against a mirror, lay Lockwood. Ghostly steam curled off his collar, his face was ashen, eyes closed. I stared at him, frozen in place. He looked so real. Then I shook myself, refusing to be drawn into another illusion. That wasn't him. I could feel it in my gut. 

I kept running. Illusions flickered by me: more Lockwood, some George, even Holly and Kipps. Jeering insults filled my mind, trying to make me give up and die. But I wouldn't listen. I was Lucy Carlyle- I was known for that. I focused on my footing, blocking out everything else, letting my stubbornness work its magic.

Suddenly I crashed into something, halting my sprint. Two hands gripped my shoulders, steadying me. I looked up.

“Hey, Luce.” He was battered, scuffed, and stained with ectoplasm, but boy did he ever look good to me. 

Lockwood grinned- a  _ real  _ grin. “Thank goodness for your tendency to throw bombs, shout abuse and smash mirrors. I never would have found you, otherwise.”

Relief swept through me, making my knees weak. I could have stood there for ages, gazing up at him, utterly thankful to everything holy that he was alive.

Instead, I cleared my throat. “Some of that was the ghost.”

He looked almost disappointed. “Oh.” Then he glanced behind me. His eyes widened.

Accompanied by a wave of roiling ghost fog, walked Lucas. His apparition was so vivid you could make out every last detail: the individual strands of hair, the texture of the striped jumper, the patchy socks. He hovered a couple feet above the ground, unblinking eyes trained on us. Other-light radiated from his form, eerily beautiful, with curls of ectoplasm peeling off to form individual, limbless hands. My provocation had succeeded. He'd finally come out to play.

Lockwood and I calmly drew our rapiers.


	4. Chapter 4

“Okay, Luce, here's the deal,” Lockwood said as we backed away from the advancing ghost. “I noticed something while floundering about with this guy chasing me. Look at the mirrors- see how they're placed? Not a single one directly faces another.”

He was right. The mirrors appeared to be scattered randomly, but each and every one sat so they didn't face another head-on. I didn't have much time to look, however, seeing as how the Visitor had begun to hurl ghostly hands at us again.

I swiped at the coils as they came, attempting to piece together a reason for why this was at the same time. Lucas  _ did  _ use the mirrors to project his image while his apparition was in hiding. “So you think...it's Lucas avoiding his own reflection?”

“It must be. The mirrors seem to have something to do with his unrest.”

The ghost’s eyes had never left us since revealing himself, and whenever he passed a pane of glass it immediately frosted over. I remembered Lucas’ despair when he hadn't been able to show his dad his card flourishing tricks- tricks that he would have learned in a mirror. Perhaps to see his own reflection would remind him of it and illicit some sort of reaction, one that could potentially be an opening. 

I nodded. “So what's the plan? Force him to look into a mirror?” They appeared to be quite heavy, and we were a little tied up at the moment. “How do we go about that?”

“Yes, well...still working on that last bit,” Lockwood said as he ducked under a stray hand. 

“Brilliant,” I muttered. 

Still Lucas strode slowly toward us, arms limp at his sides, feet hovering above the ground. The brightness of his other-light lit up the room, reflecting off mirrors and giving them long, flickering shadows. The barrage of ghostly hands continued to rain down on us, forcing us back and scarcely giving us time to breathe, let alone act on our possible plan. We had to create an opening.

With unspoken consent we began to move away from each other, attempting to divert Lucas’ attention. Weaving between mirrors, we dodged and slashed at ghostly coils, fighting to keep up with the relentless assault. I glanced over to see the blur of movement that was Lockwood, effortlessly graceful, safe behind flashing steel. I wasn't quite as stylish in comparison, but with the hands divided between us I was doing quite well holding my own. 

Steadily we moved apart, creeping around the ghost’s flank until he was forced to pause his advance. Still he stared directly ahead, face blank, seemingly unperturbed. Suddenly the mirrors on either side of us began to tremble, grasping hands emerging from the glass panes. We flinched back, forced together again. He was herding us around like sheep, keeping us in one place.

Sweat gleamed on our brows as we swung our rapiers to and fro. We were tiring quickly, and it wouldn't be long before we became overwhelmed. I glanced anxiously at Lockwood, hoping he had some kind of plan.

Suddenly he sprang forward, flicking his blade in complex patterns, trying to win back ground and get close enough to strike directly. Weaving between ghostly missiles, he rushed toward the apparition, bringing up his sword in a deadly crescent of steel. Centimetres away from ectoplasm, the ghost emitted a shriek, a wave of psychic energy exploding from his form. Lockwood was flung backward and sent tumbling, narrowly missing mirrors before coming to a dusty halt.

Immediately the ghost rushed after him in a sudden display of speed, arms outstretched, mouth gaping. Lockwood’s head jerked up; he brought his sword before him, teeth bared. 

I lunged forward. I needed something, anything to buy him time to get out of there. I pulled the first canister my hand closed upon from my belt and hurled it at the moving shape. The iron filings spun through the air, lid popping off, spraying the scene with bits of metal in a brilliant swirling pattern. The ghost, milliseconds away from reaching Lockwood, screeched as he was showered with iron. Ectoplasm fizzed at its touch, tendrils of mist being sliced to pieces.

I ran up to Lockwood, helping him to his feet. He appeared unharmed. We slunk away, ducking behind mirrors, watching from safety as the Visitor twitched and writhed. His hands covered his face, his substance flickered. We crouched side-by-side, peering out from our hiding place, struggling to catch our breath.

“Well done, Luce,” Lockwood whispered, face pale. “That could have gone badly.”

“I've never seen a Visitor able to manipulate psychic force like this one. We need to be careful.” Eyeing the ghost, I spoke as quietly as I could, hoping we’d escaped his notice. We couldn't get stuck under a barrage of ghost hands again; we'd never make any headway. 

He nodded. “We've got to find the Source, and fast.”

Oh yes. The Source. “Actually, um… I found it.”

He stared at me. “You  _ what?  _ Where in the blazes is it?”

“Beneath a floorboard somewhere. It gives off a psychic pressure I was able to follow, but it sounds like it's coming from the apparition now.” I scowled. “I was so close to uncovering it, but then the ghost attacked.”

Lockwood shifted his stance uneasily, glancing at me. “So, you saw all that nonsense as well?” He said, referring to the illusions.

I shuddered. “Yeah.” Ever since then I'd been feeling out of place. The ghost, whatever it was classified as, reminded me too much of the Fetch. It had made me question my involvement with Lockwood again, made me realise how seriously and overly concerned I was for his safety. What the ghost had shown me was too much to bear. I couldn't go through that torment again, and judging from his expression, neither could Lockwood. 

Meanwhile, Lucas was regaining power. His other-light returned in full strength, his neutral expression resumed, his hands fell back to his sides. 

_ Let's go,  _ Lockwood mouthed. We crept stealthily away, silent as shadows. 

It had become a dangerous game of cat and mouse. The apparition drifted through the maze of mirrors, searching, his glowing form acting like a searchlight as Lockwood and I snuck around, trying desperately not to alert him to our presence. We listened to the psychic thrumming and watched the light, ducking behind cover whenever the presence drew near.

We crouched behind a particularly wide mirror, scarcely breathing as we felt him pass on just the other side, a freezing gust of air. We remained there, fingertips pressed against the cold wood, balancing on our toes until the presence receded. We watched it go, ghostly light dancing through the twisting fog, disappearing behind layers of mirrors. 

Lockwood turned to me. “Okay Lucy, now’s the time. You've got to lead us to the Source.”

I swallowed. “Lockwood, I told you. The pressure’s coming from the apparition now. I won't be able to find it.”

“That's where you're wrong.” He smiled at me.

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I find it hard to imagine that something that once gave off psychic resonance would suddenly stop with no interference. It's clear to me that this particular Visitor is an odd and tricky one, and the fact that you felt something so strongly from the Source itself is incredibly peculiar. I believe the apparition is _diverting_ some of the psychic energy from the Source to itself, but I also think that whatever power that came from the object of unrest is still there, if in a smaller proportion.”

“So...you think the Source is still giving off pressure that I can follow if I concentrate hard enough?”

“Correct.”

“Well, why didn't you just bloody say that?”

“‘Cause if I’d ‘just bloody said that’ I doubt you would have believed me.”

“What makes you think I'd believe you anyway?”

“The fact that you're an incredible agent with unprecedented psychic acuity that blew me away the moment you first demonstrated your Talent.”

I tried vainly not to blush too much at his praise. Classic Lockwood. The boy knew how to get what he wanted, that was for sure. “Fine. I'll try.”

His smile became a full-out grin. “I know you can do it.”

“Be quiet a moment. And put your teeth away before I go blind.” Concentrating hard, I knit my eyebrows and listened.

When I first followed the psychic disturbance given off by the Source, it was more of a presence in my temples than an actual sound, and there was plenty of it coming from the angry Visitor that presently wandered about in search of us. With difficulty, I blotted it out and let it fade into the background. I remembered the first time I'd walked into 35 Portland Row, when I was interviewed and tested for my ability to detect psychic activity. I'd felt the emotional presence of each object put before me strongly then, and I'd come a long way since. I'd come far enough, I think, to be able to detect it at distance if I really concentrated. And so I did.

Seconds ticked by. I delved deep into the inner recesses of my Talent, letting my inherent ability guide me. There! Just faintly I detected a tiny surge of emotion: regret, accompanied by the sound of soft weeping. And it wasn't coming from the vengeful apparition that currently scoured the room.

I opened my eyes to see Lockwood watching me eagerly. “Well?”

“I've got it. Let's go,” I said, inching out from behind cover.

“I knew you could do it.”

“I know. You said.”

We crept through the foggy forest of mirrors like formless shadows, peering around for any sign of the apparition. Every now and then I caught snatches of emotion, using it as a guide as I tracked down the Source for the second time. 

Suddenly Lockwood grabbed my arm, pulling me after him as he retreated behind cover. We crouched tightly together, holding our breath as a light drifting between the mirrors drew close. I watched Lucas emerge into view, surrounded by a multitude of floating hands. Psychic pressure radiated from him in waves, making it difficult for me to pick out the Source. His head snapped around, looking in our direction. I shrank back into the shadows, heart pounding. We waited. Nothing. I peered out again. He'd gone back to wandering, light fading as he drew distant. We sighed in relief, continuing on.

The sound of weeping and feeling of regret steadily grew stronger, and eventually we arrived at an area that felt vaguely familiar. Peering at the floor, my eyes rested on a board that stuck out from the rest with a crowbar sitting next to it. I motioned to Lockwood, pointing. We crept swiftly up to it, looking around. No sign of the apparition.

Lockwood moved to the nearest mirror, grabbing and turning it to face the board with difficulty, trying not to let the feet grind against the floor. “Let's set up a little trap here just in case,” he whispered. “See if my theory is right.” We set to work turning the mirrors inward, creating a circle with reflections of us all around. Now we just had to hope the ghost would catch sight of his reflection and melt or something, provided he interrupted us from sealing the Source. I rather hoped he wouldn't. 

We returned to the dislodged floorboard. Lockwood laid out his rapier next to him then grabbed the crowbar while I stood watch. Lacking iron chains and filings, we were without protection aside from our trusty rapiers, bombs and flares. 

Lockwood thrust the crowbar into the gap, the sound of splitting wood reverberating throughout the room, shockingly loud compared to the recent silence. We paused, watching and listening. I felt a slight fluctuation in the psychic disturbance; I knew it'd sensed us. Lockwood continued working, prying the board from the floor. Casting it aside, he peered into the hole. I craned my neck to see as Lockwood uttered an oath.

“There's another stupid board blocking it. Someone went out of their way to hide whatever this is. Bad memories cut deep I suppose,” Lockwood said, reaching into the gap.

“At least it won't be a body. That's the last thing I'd need tonight.”

Lockwood grunted his agreement, crowbar biting into more wood with a loud  _ crunch _ .

Suddenly, I froze. I couldn't move. My heart beat rapidly in my chest, my limbs felt as though they were encased in concrete. Ghost-lock. That could only mean one thing. Slowly, I managed to inch my head around; I sensed Lockwood doing the same.

Lucas drifted rapidly toward us, his face contorted into an expression of utmost fury. The limbless hands floated about him, fingers like claws, other-light harshly bright. The psychic thrum accompanying him resonated through my boots, jarring me where I stood transfixed, gripped by terror.

I watched helpless, the shape drifting closer and closer. His eyes bore into me, refusing to look at the mirrors surrounding him. I tried to move, to bring my rapier before me and cut the apparition down. My body didn't respond; the apathy that settled over my limbs was too much. Panic rose, a sense of utmost dread and choking fear cascading through me, tears prickling behind my eyes. Biting cold swept over me as the ghost reached forward, hand drawing nearer and nearer to my face. I couldn't breathe. 

A silver-tipped blade sliced its way into view, cutting through the apparition. I watched as ectoplasm peeled away from around the metal, Lucas’ expression becoming one of shock, substance flickering. With a screech of agony the Visitor was severed in two, his mist shrinking back and reforming as a shapeless blob further away.

Lockwood stood before me, arm outstretched in the strike, face haggard, breathing hard. He turned to me, meeting my eyes with a clear gaze. “Did he touch you?”

The ghost-lock released; I shook my head. How did he break free from it?

Lockwood twirled his blade as the Visitor began to re-form, pacing briskly toward it. His eyes glinted darkly, his lips were a thin white line. Immediately Lucas summoned the ghostly hands to attack, but he was too slow. Lockwood was upon him in a heartbeat, his blade a dancing whirl of steel, slashing the ghost’s substance to ribbons. I watched as the the Visitor was reduced to nothing, other-light blinking out of existence, a curl of ghostly steam all that remained. Lockwood stood there for a moment, glaring at it. 

Suddenly a huge wave of psychic energy accompanied by a shrill wail erupted from the Source, staggering us. Buffeted by lashing wind, I turned to face it and saw a blue light pouring through the opening in the boards, frost spreading across the floor. I had to put an end to it. Removing the silver seal from my pocket, I began to force my way through the wave of energy, hand shielding my face, boots sliding on slick wood. 

I struggled to put one foot in front of the other, inching my way closer and closer. Breath rasped from my throat and my vision swam with bright light. My legs burned with the effort. Then a hand was on my shoulder, pushing me forward. Lockwood struggled next to me, the force of his will bolstering mine.

Slowly but surely we inched our way forward, faces whipped raw by the screaming wind, until we finally reached the hole. Falling to my knees, I gripped the edge of the floorboard to steady myself. Ice crept over my fingertips. Retrieving the crowbar from the hole, I cracked it against the remaining wooden board, splinters flying. Still the psychic energy howled at us. I felt Lockwood stiffen beside me. I glanced over my shoulder.

Lucas hadn't quit. He was half-formed, face stretched and melted, hands grasping. He stooped toward us, shrieking. Lockwood raised his rapier, ready to fight to the bitter end. 

“Lucas.…” 

We flinched. Even the ghost paused, head whipping around. Emerging between the mirrors and through the fog...was Ms Crowley.

What was she  _ doing _ here?  _ Get back!  _ I wanted to scream. But I didn't have the energy. 

Her eyes were glazed over and she staggered about, staring at the floor. Her face was one of incorrigible misery. Then I noticed what she was holding. A small mirror, clutched by shaking fingers. Around her arms dangled the iron chain Lockwood gave her.

Lucas whipped toward her, coils of ectoplasm in hot pursuit. Lockwood launched after him, coat flapping, sword raised. He wouldn't make it. 

_ “Get down!” _

Suddenly, Lucas stopped dead. I watched as he trembled, ghostly hands fizzling away, mouth working like a fish out of water, staring directly into the mirror held by Ms Crowley. In the glass I saw him reflected- except it was different. He was smiling, fully corporeal, holding a deck of cards confidently. Lucas emitted an ear-piercing screech.

Lockwood turned to me. “Now, Lucy!”

He didn't need to tell me twice. With one final desperate swing, I smashed the crowbar against the board, reducing it to pieces. An old, worn deck of cards sat below it, enveloped by a blue light, encased in spider webs. Unfurling the silver chain net, I draped it over the cards gently. At once the light winked out of existence, the screaming psychic energy ceased. The dark pall that seemed to suffuse the room lifted, the ghost fog chased away by dim light. The temperature began to climb.

I collapsed with relief, trembling. It was over. I remained there a moment, taking deep, calming breaths, then pushed myself up. I turned to face the others.

Lockwood was standing, one hand to his forehead. Ms Crowley sat, the mirror lying before her in pieces, hands shaking. I rushed over to her. “Are you all right?” If she'd been ghost-touched, we'd have to get help fast. 

She looked up at me, dazed. “Miss Carlyle? I...I don't…” Aside from a few little cuts on her fingers, presumably caused by the broken mirror, she seemed unharmed. Thank goodness Lockwood had given her that iron chain; it seemed to have protected her from any stray ectoplasm. Evidently, she didn't remember her little excursion into the haunted room. Had the ghost manipulated her?

“Your son has been put to rest,” I assured her. “His spirit can finally sleep in peace.”

Tears swelled as she gazed at me, relief softening her tired features. “As will mine. You have my thanks, Miss Carlyle, you and your friend.”

I heard a thump behind me. We turned. 

Lockwood was on one knee, chest rising and falling with harsh breath. He gripped his left arm tightly. He gave us a thin smile. “That's all well and good, but do you reckon we could do something about this now?”

Then I saw it. It had been so dark I thought it was just a glove, but then I noticed the growing pool on the floor as rivulets of blood cascaded from his fingertips. My eyes traveled up his arm to the deep, clean gash that separated his flesh. 

A gash caused by a rapier.


	5. Chapter 5

The moment I saw it I knew. The horrible truth of it formed a lump in my throat that threatened to choke me even as we helped Lockwood through the maze of mirrors, supporting him between us as he struggled to walk with forced carelessness. Classic Lockwood. Always putting on a mask, always concealing what ailed him. As we walked he carefully kept the wound angled away from my gaze as if to shield me from it, but I knew. It was my fault. Not directly, perhaps, but all the same.

How could this have  _ happened?  _ Of course I knew  _ how;  _ that wasn't hard to puzzle out, but the fact that it happened at all was enough to send me into a minor state of shock.  _ My fault. _ My mind was a whirl, my limbs numb and shaky. I didn't even notice we'd found our way out of the mirror maze until Ms Crowley hurried us out the door and down the stairs. A red trail was left behind. 

By the time the ambulance arrived Lockwood had lost copious amounts of blood, even with the tourniquet I'd applied to him. His eyes were bright and glassy, his face dreadfully pale. He gazed at a fixed point above him from where he was forced to lie down as the iron-trimmed ambulance careened through the quiet London streets. I mumbled answers to the medics’ questions as they treated my various cuts and scrapes, and before I knew it we'd arrived at the hospital. 

I watched as they began to take Lockwood away. His head was drooping, and he didn't even have the strength to give me a glance. I felt a twist in my chest, bitter and painful. I wanted to be there with him. It was my fault he'd ended up like this after all; a result of my weakness. But I knew I had important matters to attend, so I let the nurses fuss over me until they were content then rang up 35 Portland Row.

George picked up.

“Hey George,” I said wearily. 

“Lucy? Where are you two? It's three in the morning. We finished our case ages ago.”

Three in the morning? It had been that long?

I sighed. “Our ghost turned out to be quite a hassle. We...we're at the hospital now.”

The voice turned sharp. “The hospital? What happened?”

“It's Lockwood. He--”

“He didn't get ghost-touched again?”

“No, no...look, it's probably best if I explain when I get home. But first I've got to get the Source to DEPRAC.”

“DEPRAC? Not Clerkenwell?”

My lips tightened. “Something tells me they'll want to take a look at this one before they toss it into a fire.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Tell me all about it when you get home. I'll have hot food waiting for you, and not a hint of dirty laundry to be seen.”

“Is that a bribe?”

“Maybe.”

I chuckled. “See you later, George.”

By the time I arrived at Scotland Yard I was ready to drop dead with exhaustion. What I'd experienced left a mental strain that translated to my body, overlapping the soreness of tired muscles. What I really needed was some hot tea and a warm bath, not to be running around with Sources at three in the morning. 

With a weary sigh, I walked stiffly toward the massive steel-and-glass building. I stepped over runnels of water, past smouldering lavender fires, and up to the diligent night-watch kids that stood guard. Seeing my rapier and silver-glass case clutched in my hand, they moved their sticks aside, allowing me access. Finally I reached DEPRAC’s centre of operations, only to see the room quiet and still. Only a handful of uniformed men and women scurried about, lacking their usual fervour. A Fittes team leader leaned against one wall, speaking in hushed tones to his lackeys. They gave me suspicious glares as I walked inside.

Inspector Montagu Barnes stood ponderously before the sprawling map that occupied the back wall, holding a steaming cup of black coffee. He turned as I cleared my throat awkwardly. His tired eyes searched my scratched-up face. “Miss Carlyle?”

All confidence drained through my boots. I detested dealing with authority figures, especially without my co-workers by my side. “Yes, sir. Um...I was hoping to speak with you for a moment.”

Barnes took one last sip from his coffee, then placed it on the desk and beckoned me over. “Very well. Don't have much going on anyway, as you can see.”

I paced up to the desk carefully. “Quiet night, Inspector?”

He squinted at the papers sitting pinned to the wood below his hand. “Yes, well...it's that time of year. Fewer Visitors about. But it seems that, along with her gaining power, Penelope Fittes has constructed a method of attending to matters without our help...or watchful eye. But enough of that. What do you want?”

Mustering courage, I placed the silver glass case upon the desk. “I urge you and your people to take a look at this, if possible.”

He picked up the case gingerly, peering through the glass to the deck of cards sat neatly inside. Then he looked to me. “Surely a well-equipped agency would be a better fit for investigating such matters? I'm positively astonished that Lockwood and Company would impart anything to DEPRAC willingly.”

I glanced briefly over my shoulder to the agents nearby, then lowered my voice. “Yes, but you're better than the alternative. You said it yourself, sir. Fittes is gaining more and more control, and we both know it's not entirely benign. They're the last organisation I'd want to personally give this to.”

He scrutinised me through narrowed eyes. “Quite right. I'll admit, Miss Carlyle, you've surprised me. Now, what's so special about this that you'd give it to me instead of sending it straight to Clerkenwell?”

I took a deep breath and told him briefly about our experience with the ghost, and that we were unsure of how to classify it. The fact that it preyed on the mind with illusions made it similar to a Fetch, but this one seemed to encompass entire environments in its illusory grasp. Not only that, but it had elements of a Changer and Shining Boy as well, and drove even an adult into madness. It was an absolute bafflement, and it seemed to me that we were better off safe than sorry. 

“It may very well be a new type of ghost, from the sound of it,” Barnes said slowly, rubbing his chin. He took the silver glass case and tucked it into his pocket. “Miss Carlyle, you've convinced me. I'll have our psychic researchers look into this. On your end, I expect a fully-detailed account of what exactly you experienced, and anything that you think might aid our investigation.” He lowered his voice. “But a fair warning: if this does prove to be something of significance, we will have to alert Fittes. However, I will use our leverage to make sure she doesn't sweep it under the rug and claim credit. With her suspicious behaviour as of late, you were right to bring this to me instead.” 

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was good to hear that ‘Penelope’ Fittes didn't have  _ everyone  _ entirely under her thumb. “Thank you, Inspector.”

He straightened, smoothing his mustache. “I'm expecting that report by tomorrow, Miss Carlyle. But by God, do get some rest. Soon you'll be competing with me for the most tired look in London.”

It was a little after four o’clock by the time I finally got home. I ambled up the broken tile path and stood before the door. Lockwood popped into my mind, and I felt a fresh wave of guilt roll over me. I fumbled for my keys and was about to unlock the door when it swung open to reveal George. He stood there in all his glory, still wearing his thick ectoplasm-resistant trousers from the case and a faded t-shirt. He ushered me inside without a word, closing the door behind me. 

Shedding my coat, I hung it on the coat rack then wearily followed George into the kitchen. True to his word, the house was looking decent, and there was only a small stack of unwashed dishes sitting precariously on the edge of the counter. He moved to the stove where a plate of pancakes and bacon was being kept warm. I sank into a chair gratefully. It was good to be home.

Suddenly, Holly’s head popped into view from the next room over. “Lucy!” As she emerged into the kitchen, I saw that she'd been getting ready to leave but had politely waited until I'd returned. She was as immaculately dressed as ever, but I could tell she longed for a comforting bed to fall into. She rushed over and gave me a quick hug, then pulled away and studied me carefully, hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay? George told me you were at the hospital.”

I nodded, smiling a little. “I'm fine.” The smile faded. “It's Lockwood who, er...needed medical attention.” 

George slid the plate of food past Holly and up to me, then retrieved the kettle from where it huffed away and poured us all tea. After distributing the cups, he and Holly sat, observing me carefully. There was a silence. 

A thought occurred to me. “Is Kipps…?”

“Gone home. He'll be back tomorrow to discuss payment and future work. Did Ms Crowley…?”

“Oh, she'll be sending us payment once all the commotion dies down. She was very grateful.”

“Was she? Good, good….”

Another pause. Clearly they could tell I didn't want to talk about it, but I knew it must be done. I couldn't keep them in the dark about a colleague’s health; they were worried sick. I wrapped my hands around the teacup and stared into its brown depths. Then, a little unsteadily, I recounted all that had transpired during the case from start to finish, every last detail of what I'd experienced. Almost. 

They sat in silence, digesting the information, staring serious and contemplative at the table. None of us had encountered a ghost like Lucas previously, so it was clear that they were wracking their brains, trying to make sense of what I'd just told them. 

“Okay,” George said at last. “I have a myriad of questions to pelt you with about the Visitor, but there's something else that isn't adding up. How and when did Lockwood get injured?” 

There it was.

A pang of sadness and guilt spread through me, starting in my core and ending in my toes. I felt tears prickle behind my eyes as I forced the words out past the lump in my throat. “It was when Lucas had us trapped in ghost-lock. To get out of it, to save  _ me--  _ he slashed his own arm with his rapier.”

The two of them blinked at me in shock. I sat there, trembling, trying not to let the tears show. “I'd wondered how he managed to break free. I guess his strong willpower allowed him to move a little, but not enough, so he needed something even stronger: pain. He...he was bleeding the entire time we were dealing with Lucas and the Source, but it was so dark, I couldn't- I didn't see. He tried not to let it show, for my sake.” Images of the Fetch and Lucas’ illusions were flashing into my mind, strengthening my overwhelming emotion. My voice shook. 

“Do you need some time?” Holly asked gently.

“...No. Thanks, Holly.”

George muttered a curse under his breath. “That reckless fool. I wouldn't worry too much, Lucy. The hospital will take good care of him and he'll be back before you know it. Besides, it wasn't your fault.”

I thrust my head into my hands despairingly. “But he did it for  _ me.  _ If I'd been stronger and broken out of the ghost-lock myself, he wouldn't have done it.”

“Lucy, you need to take a breath and calm down. I get that you're upset, but Lockwood’s a tough cookie. A reckless, bone-headed cookie, but tough nonetheless. He'll be fine.”

Frustration rose. I knew he was trying to comfort me, but I wouldn't hear it. The responsibility I felt was too much, the images too vivid. _“He nearly went into hypovolemic shock,_ George! It was serious! He could have _died_ if we left it much longer! And it was all because of me. Don't try to tell me it wasn't.” 

George threw up his hands in exasperation, eyes flashing with anger behind his round spectacles. “Well, what do you  _ want  _ me to say? That yes, it was all your fault and you should continue setting unrealistic expectations for yourself and not accept that accidents  _ happen?”  _ He slammed his hand on the table.

“You could, and I'd deserve it!” We glowered at each other, faces flushed, jaws clenched. Holly sat back in her chair, watching with wide eyes. She'd learned to stay out of our rows.

He wasn't there; how could he understand? How could he understand the guilt that gripped my heart and made my stomach feel like a bottomless pit? I'd left Lockwood and Company for this very reason: so Lockwood would stop risking his life for me. And what happened on our first case together again? He'd risked bleeding to death to ensure I wouldn't get ghost-touched. There was blood  _ everywhere--  _ the red-stained handprint on my coat was evidence of how bad it was. It was a memory that would remain seared into my mind forever, accompanied by a constant, overwhelming guilt.

Then I became aware of my hand resting next to the breakfast George had cooked for me, of the more-or-less clean state of the house. No doubt he'd rushed to prepare this all in time for me to come home; that he knew from my voice over the phone that I needed comfort. Looking at him now, I could see the genuine concern hidden behind the mask of anger and indifference. Lockwood  _ was  _ his best friend and employer, so of course he was just as concerned for him as I was. And here I was throwing a fit, ignoring his kindness and letting my emotions get the better of me. 

I felt my anger drain out of me, replacing itself with exhaustion. “I'm sorry, George. I shouldn't have yelled at you. You're right, of course. I know he'll be fine.”

George similarly deflated, removing his spectacles and rubbing them on his shirt despondently. “It's okay. I understand how worried and responsible you must feel.”

“How did your case go?” I asked, finally picking up my fork. Turned out a miniature temper tantrum was all I needed to get the emotion out and retrieve my appetite.

George scoffed. “If you can call it that. We just spent a good two hours picking through the muck of the low-tide Thames looking for a Source. The water kept the Spectre at bay for the most part, though Kipps did have a nasty little run in with a terrifying amalgamation of plastic bags and women’s undergarments.”

I snorted into my pancakes. “You'll have to tell me all about that one.”

“Perhaps we should wait for Lockwood to come back,” Holly chimed in. “No doubt he'll want to hear it too.”

George traced a scribbled line along the Thinking Cloth with a finger. “Do you expect he'll be back sometime later today?”

I nodded stiffly. “I'm certain he won't want to be away from home any longer than necessary. But if he can't make it the nurse said she'd give us a call.” I doubted that would be the case. Knowing Lockwood, he'd be fighting off the doctors as soon as he was lucid. 

After a pause, Holly rose. “Well, it's time I was off. I'm  _ so  _ pleased you're all right, Lucy.”

George looked up at her. “Don't worry about coming back tomorrow till you're fully rested, Hol. I doubt we'll be doing much anyway.”

She smiled gratefully at him.

“Here, I'll see you out,” I said, rising from my seat. We moved into the hall.

There was an awkward silence as she put on her coat and adjusted her hair. I immediately began to regret my decision.

I cleared my throat. “How were the boys tonight? Did they fight much?”

“Oh, no more than usual. That is to say, a fair bit.” We laughed. “But I think George is warming to the idea of having Kipps around, ever so slowly.”

“Mm. That's good.”

“How about you? Everything all right with Lockwood? I know you two tend to disagree at times.”

“Oh, it was fine. It all went smoothly. Well, except….” I trailed off, looking at the floor miserably.

Holly’s face likewise fell. “You really care for him, don't you?” She murmured.

I looked sharply at her. “What kind of question is that? Of course I do. We all do.”

Holly smiled. “More of a statement, really. You're quite right.” She strode up to the door, perfect heels clicking on the tiles. She paused, looking over her shoulder. “No matter what, Lucy,” she told me, “I want you to remember that, however you might feel, this wasn't your fault. Lockwood is very reckless, but we all love him for it and take care of him when he's in need. We care for each other like a family, and as long as we do that, there's no point in trying to assign blame.” She opened the door, giving me one last smile. “No matter what we believe, some bonds are never meant to be broken.” Then she shut the door behind her and was gone into the night.

After finishing my food, taking a long bath and bidding good night to George, I finally stepped tiredly up the stairs to my attic bedroom. The promise of a warm bed was nearly enough to make me weep with joy.

I walked inside, yawning, ready for sleep...then suddenly was aware of a certain jar of ectoplasm making rapid and gruesome faces at me from the windowsill. With a groan, I padded up to it and twisted the plastic lever on the lid. 

The face merely stared at me, completely silent. I scowled, reaching to twist it shut again. I wasn't in the mood for its games.

_ “No, wait! Lucy, you wouldn't do that to an old friend, would you?”  _

“Depends,” I growled. “What do you want?”

_ “What good would it do me if I told you? You  _ know  _ what I want, but not once have you ever considered granting it to me. Selfish, really.” _

“Do you know what  _ I  _ want?”

_ “I can guess,”  _ it whispered.  _ “Not that I'll be able to help you.” _

“I beg to differ.”

_ “Oh? What do you want, then?” _

“Some peace and quiet.”

_ “...Nope, can't help you. Sorry.” _

I sighed. “Figures.” I flopped onto my bed, closing my eyes. At once one of Lucas’ illusions flashed into my mind. I snapped my eyes open again.

_ “So, Lockwood’s out of commission, is he?”  _ The evil voice said.

I raised my head slightly, frowning at it. “How did you know that?”

_ “The vent beneath this windowsill. You'd be surprised how far sound can travel through it.” _

I scowled.  _ “You'd _ be surprised how far I could chuck you out this window.”

_ “Ooh, feisty! You're  _ really _ not in a good mood, are you? I guess that's what happens when you nearly kill your love interest.” _

I threw myself off the bed, striding up to the jar and immediately twisting the lever shut. I tossed a discarded shirt at it, blocking its view. That stupid skull’s commentary was the last thing I needed.

Returning to my bed, I burrowed deep into the covers. I shut my eyes and tried vainly to block out visions and nightmares, before finally falling into an uneasy sleep.

I awoke seven hours later to noon light pouring through the arched window. The room was quiet and peaceful. I lay there, blinking my eyes open, sprawled every which way. After a moment, the previous day's events came crashing down on me and I groaned. Everything was sore. My various injuries stung. I remembered Lockwood and immediately felt like punching myself in the face. What was another massive bruise to my collection? God knew I deserved it.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I showered and dressed. Perhaps I'd go for a walk today. I didn't feel much like talking to anyone, and it seemed lovely outside. 

I was about to head downstairs when I paused, looking to the window. The jar still sat covered by the old shirt. I walked up to it and removed the garment.

The swirl of cloudy green plasm formed immediately into a face, pulling an expression of extravagant hurt.

“Are you going to behave yourself today?” I asked it pointedly. 

It looked like it was about to agree, then paused and sunk into a deeply thoughtful expression as if it were contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

I rolled my eyes. “Nevermind.” Scooping up the jar, I made my way down the narrow stairs.

The second floor was empty and quiet, so I proceeded down to the first. A quiet hum of voices emanated from the kitchen, growing steadily louder as I approached. I rounded the corner and emerged into the room. My breath caught in my throat.

Lockwood stood there, chatting with George. He was wearing clean, casual clothes, his hair freshly washed. His complexion was pale with pronounced hollows under his cheekbones, but still he smiled, dark eyes sparkling. My gaze traveled down to his arm. His bicep was wrapped in thick white gauze held in place with a clip, dark shirt sleeve rolled loosely around it. Cotton was stuffed under the bandages to soak up any blood that escaped the stitches, and his arm hung loosely at his side. Oh, Holly was there too.

I stood there like a plank. He was back already? And he was _ standing? _

“Hey, Lucy,” Lockwood said, finally noticing me. His grin turned rather sheepish. Was that...guilt? 

George turned to face me. His expression was one of mild irritation. “Morning, Luce. Mind helping me convince this doughnut to lie down? It's a wonder they even let him out so soon.”

“Being the head of an agency  _ does  _ have its advantages,” Lockwood pointed out. 

“Maybe so, but being an idiot sure doesn't,” George grumbled. 

Holly appeared from behind them, pretty white teeth flashing in a smile. “How are you feeling, Lucy?” 

“Sore, but otherwise well. Thanks, Holly.” I placed the skull on the counter then turned back to Lockwood. I took a deep breath. 

“What. Were. You.  _ Thinking?”  _

Everyone froze. Lockwood gulped.

A hot cord of hurt knotted itself in my stomach. My fists were clenched, eyes fixed accusingly on his face. After the initial relief, a wave of anger had swept me up and carried me away, past the realm of casual thought and into the smouldering pit of confused emotion. I scarcely noticed the others scamper away.

“Er, well...I guess I wasn't,” Lockwood admitted, eyes darting around nervously. Clearly he was dismayed to be alone in the room with an angry Lucy Carlyle.

“Too right you weren't,” I growled. “We went over this, Lockwood! I  _ told  _ you to stop risking yourself for me!” I advanced toward him as I spoke; he backed away anxiously.

“Did you? ‘Cause I'm not sure I remember that...precisely.” I had him cornered. “Look, Lucy...I'm sorry. All right? I am truly sorry. I shouldn't have made you worry. But I'm fine now! Everything turned out, didn't it?”

“That's not the point! This was the whole reason I'd left Lockwood and Company, and now we're back to square one! And it's not  _ you  _ who should be sorry, it's--” The lump in my throat was back. I swallowed hard. “It's  _ me. _ ”

I felt Lockwood's stare as I looked down miserably. All at once my anger was replaced by sadness and guilt. “It's me.  _ I'm  _ the reason it happened.  _ I'm  _ the reason you made that decision. And I'm sorry.” I scrunched my eyes shut and waited. 

“Lucy.”

“Yes?”

“I think I need to sit down,” Lockwood said weakly.

I looked up at him in alarm. His eyes had that slightly glassy look and he was even paler than before. He'd been moving around too much.

“Oh, gosh-- of course. Here. Sorry about that.” I moved away from where I had him pinned against the counter and pulled out a chair. He sat, I followed suit. We smiled hesitantly. Then I remembered to be mad. Or was it sad?

“Lucy, can I tell you something?” 

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“When we were waiting for the ambulance to arrive and you and Ms Crowley were scurrying about like mad, I was lying on the couch willing myself not to bleed. Then something profound happened. Oh, Lucas’ death-glow had finally shown up, by the way, on that very sofa. It glowed and swirled about my middle. It was very odd. I thought if I'd died there, that'd make two deaths on that couch, and our death-glows would overlap. It would make anyone with the Sight hesitant to sit on that particular piece of furniture, wouldn't you say? They'd probably see it as some sort of death-couch.”

“...Lockwood.”

“Oh, right. As I was lying there contemplating my existence, Ms Crowley’s cat came up to say hello. You remember her, of course?”

I'd almost forgotten about it. The cat that scared Lockwood when he unveiled that first mirror. It seemed a world away to me now. “What about her?”

“She was really quite friendly. We gazed into each other’s eyes and had a deep connection. What had happened was in the past. We startled each other, got off on the wrong foot, but we reached an understanding.” He looked at me.

“...Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I get what you're saying, but it doesn't change anything. The point is, if you keep going like this, doing reckless stunts to make sure I'm okay, you're...you're not going to live much longer.” Just saying it conjured those stupid tears. 

_ “Luce.”  _ Lockwood grabbed my hand, I looked up at him, startled. He placed it in his palm, the size of his dwarfing mine. Then he gave me that annoying, brilliant smile that made everything seem okay. “After all the time we've worked and lived together, I think I know you pretty well. If you were in my position on that case, you would have done the same thing. Correct?”

Would I sacrifice myself for him? Absolutely. I nodded slowly. 

“And if I  _ hadn't  _ done that thing, you may not be here today. But you are. We risk our lives for each other, and overall we're better off as a result. We even each other out. We reach a middle ground, a balance.” He placed his other hand on top of mine. “An understanding.”

The distant hubbub that had steadily been growing in volume reached a crescendo, and suddenly Quill Kipps burst into the room, holding a folder, in the middle of speech: “--don't have time for your games, Cubbins! I just--” He stopped abruptly when he saw us, dumbfounded. We stared at him.

Then Lockwood fixed him with a death glare that would have curdled milk.  _ “Leave us.”  _

Kipps closed his mouth, spun on his heel, and was out the door.

We sat there for a moment, looking after him, processing what just happened. I realised Lockwood was still holding my hand. 

“Now,” Lockwood turned back to me, smiling. “As I was saying. I think we simply make a fantastic team, Luce. By coming to each other’s rescue we prolong each other's lives, even if some of our sticky situations come from our own faffing about. But then again, no one said being an agent was an easy job. It's dangerous, and I think we can both agree that danger suits us fabulously well.”

I nodded again. What he said made sense. We'd saved each other more times than we could count. The odd screw up was bound to happen, not that it made me feel entirely guilt free. And besides, it was like Lockwood had said when we stood among the Sources at Rotwell’s in our spirit capes, surrounded by chaos: we could spend our remaining days, no matter how limited, together.

I looked back up to see Lockwood watching me intently. He drew a breath. “You've heard my pitch. You know where I stand. What say you?”

“Well, I agree with you, of course.”

“You do?” He looked almost surprised, then broke out into a grin. “Excellent.”

_ “But,”  _ I continued, “Before we wrap this up, I have something to tell you. Something important.”

He fixed his dark eyes on mine. “Yes?”

“It's something I've noticed through all these times, the good and the bad. Something that came to my attention...more recently than I'd care to admit...”

He blinked, shifting his position slightly.

“...Something that, now that I think about it, seems quite obvious.”

He gazed at me, completely still.

“You're an idiot,” I told him feelingly. “A complete and utter clod.”

Lockwood winced. I heard a snicker from the other room.

“If you  _ ever  _ do something so stupid and reckless again, I will never forgive you. Got it?”

Lockwood nodded solemnly. “Got it.”

“Good.” I smiled at him, gave his hand a friendly squeeze, then withdrew. As I stood, my eyes rested on the ghost-jar sitting nonchalantly on the counter. The face mimed a retch. It had been listening the whole time.

As the snicker had indicated, it turned out  _ everyone  _ had been listening from where they sat in the study. They busied themselves innocently as we walked into the room. George was sprawled in his favourite chair, nose-deep in the casebook with a pencil behind his ear; Holly sat prim and proper with a magazine on her lap; even Kipps had taken a seat and was peering around uncomfortably.

“So,” George said. “Got everything ironed out?”

Lockwood collapsed into his chair. “I believe so.”

“Good. I really wasn't looking forward to you two moping around and avoiding each other for the next few weeks.”

“What are you doing, George?” I asked, sitting opposite Lockwood.

He glanced at me from over the casebook. “Figured I'd get a head start on that report for Barnes. I'm trying to come up with a name for the case.”

I frowned. “Does it need a name?”

_ “Lucy,”  _ George tutted. “Of course it needs a name. Lockwood and Co. is a classy establishment.”

Kipps grunted. “Could've fooled me.”

“Do you have any ideas so far?” Lockwood inquired as George glowered at Kipps.

“Well, one did come to mind. How about ‘Smoke and Mirrors’?”

“Terrible,” I said immediately.

“Not to mention cliché,” Lockwood muttered.

Even Holly was frowning. “I understand what you're doing there, but it doesn't quite capture the essence of a case.”

“Complete rubbish,” Kipps contributed.

George sighed. “You're right. An awful title all around. Well, I'm sure I'll come up with something.”

We lapsed into silence, content to sit and enjoy each other's company. I breathed in the comforting smell of leather and paper, gazing around at the oddities of the decorative room. The library had always been one of my favourite rooms of 35 Portland Row. Not because I was some sort of avid reader, but because I felt it captured the essence of the house in itself. The dark shelves crammed with all manner of books, the diagrams, maps and magazines cluttering the coffee table, the unusual psychic artifacts that adorned the mantelpiece. It held the sense of charm that I'd immediately come to love when I first arrived, the charm that I'd been so relieved to reacquaint with upon my return to the agency. My return  _ home.  _

I looked at George, sitting with his knees pulled in, scribbling in the casebook, brow knit in concentration. I looked at Holly, lovely dark hair flowing over her shoulders, elegant fingers turning the pages of her magazine. I looked at Kipps, peering suspiciously at the ghost-detecting bobble next to him on the end table, turtleneck pulled nearly up to his ears. Then I looked at Lockwood. He sat slumped sideways, examining his injured arm, flexing his hand experimentally. He seemed exhausted. After this moment of peace I'd have to convince him to get some sleep. Looking up, he caught my eye and smiled. Immediately my darkening thoughts on the matter were chased away, suffused by warm light. I smiled back. I was home, surrounded by my comrades. 

There was no place I'd rather be.

* * *

 

_ The End. _


End file.
